


this is a love song (in my own way)

by nagatha_christie



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagatha_christie/pseuds/nagatha_christie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the gentlemen’s room, the floor is sticky with lager, and the lippy smeared on the mirror looks suspiciously like Aimee’s favourite bright blue. The music is muffled through the walls, but it seeps in electric along the floor, making them feel brave and alive. This is the one place where Harry doesn't seem to command attention, not from the blokes chatting at the sink, or from the ones trying to work up a stream at the urinals. No one seems to notice when Harry grabs Nick’s wrist and pulls him into a stall, gentle but not asking. His hand on Nick’s skin tightens before he lets go and clicks the flimsy door shut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is a love song (in my own way)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while now, and the time felt right to finally post it. Huge thanks to Brady, Rachel, Julija and Shen for your support, and major kudos to [ Vee ](http://kittenstyles.tumblr.com) for editing this on such short notice. :3
> 
> I do not own or know any of the people in this work. Title (and general vibe) is from "Bang the Doldrums", by Fall Out Boy.  
> There are so many colours on the spectrum of love, and they're all beautiful in the right light.

It’s one of those times Nick knows he’s going to be talking about for years. All the people he loves most all together in one space; cuddling and dancing and arguing about what objects should and shouldn’t be thrown off the balcony. They’ve got everything they could ever want: endless cocktails at Koko, The Vaccines in their raucous top form, and a night blooming wide open with possibilities.

“I’ve got to piss!” Harry announces suddenly, cutting through the noise and getting up on a chair that screeches against the cement of the balcony floor. He's so loud that everyone within a ten foot radius can probably hear him.

"What are you on about, Hazza?" Pixie calls, tilting her head. She and George turn to look, which is quite impressive, since it’s only Harry, and George has his hand up her skirt.

“Does anyone know where the toilets are?” Harry asks.

They all look at each other and shrug.

“Nobody?” Harry crosses his arms and pouts. Without his hand on the railing, he’s a bit wobbly.

"Alright, popstar. Let's get you down, yeah?" Nick says.

"But I _like_ this chair," Harry says, petulant.

"Do you _fancy_ it?" Aggy teases.

"Yes." Harry sticks out his chin a little proudly. "Me and this chair are going to elope."

“And what will Anne have to say about that?” Aggy asks.

"Styles, come down. You're going to break your head. You can't be fit to marry any pieces of furniture if you're broken," Nick says.

“Timber!” Harry shouts, giggling.

“Grab my shoulder,” Nick says, hooking his arms around Harry’s waist. Harry pushes down hard on his shoulder, nearly toppling them both when he steps off. Nick keeps his arms around him, not entirely convinced Harry’s reacclimated to solid ground. With Harry, he's never too sure. One second he’ll be fine, and the next he’ll be stumbling on air, flailing and fumbling for the nearest coat or shirtsleeve to delay his fall.

“Will you show me to the toilets?” Harry asks.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you getting lost,” Nick says. “You’d be like a little sheep, lost in the wilderness.”

“You mean you noticed the hooves? Blast it,” Harry says, laughing. The music picks up again, and they have to shout into each others’ ears to be heard over the music. Everything feels ten times funnier.

“Hard not to. Awfully pointy, them.”

Harry pinches Nick’s arm so hard it makes him yelp and jerk it away.

“Bleedin’ hell,” Nick says. He rubs his arm. “I didn’t say ‘pinch me with your hooves as hard as you possibly can’.”

“Must've misheard you,” Harry says, grinning smartly.

“You’re a right brat,” Nick says, laughing. “Let’s go find the loo.”

Nick takes hold of Harry’s hand and leads him through the crowds. Every couple of feet he catches Harry’s laugh sifting through the chatter and feedback. Nick likes the way the clusters of people part for them. He’s been to Koko at least a dozen times, so it doesn’t take much for him to find the toilets; he’d know the way there backwards and blindfolded, probably.

“There you are,” Nick says ceremoniously, dropping Harry’s hand and gesturing at a green door. “Now you can go bother somebody else.”

“Come in with me,” Harry says.

“Would you like me to supervise while you have a wee, is it?” Nick rolls his eyes. “Count to twenty while you wash your hands?”

“No, you strange duck.” Harry says. “You loony toon.” He throws his head back, then, laughing with his whole body. It’s not even one bit funny but Nick finds himself laughing and following Harry in despite himself.

In the gentlemen’s room, the floor is sticky with lager, and the lippy smeared on the mirror looks suspiciously like Aimee’s favourite bright blue. The music is muffled through the walls, but it seeps in electric along the floor, making them feel brave and alive. This is the one place where Harry doesn't seem to command attention, not from the blokes chatting at the sink, or from the ones trying to work up a stream at the urinals. No one seems to notice when Harry grabs Nick’s wrist and pulls him into a stall, gentle but not asking. His hand on Nick’s skin tightens before he lets go and clicks the flimsy door shut.

Harry has an expression on his face that seems far more grateful than Nick reckons he deserves, considering he’d only given Harry directions. For a moment they look at each other with light in their eyes, not saying a word as the laughter fades away. Nick wants to laugh, but he also wants to win this staring contest, so he keeps his big mouth shut. It’s bloody difficult to keep a straight face, though, and Nick thinks he’s going to crack, _knows_ he’s going to crack. But then. Harry closes the space between them -- falls into it, really -- and presses his mouth hard against Nick’s.

This time it’s a question, and Nick answers, opening his mouth for Harry, because _hell yeah fucking right_ , because he’s thought about this dozens of times, because this is _Harry_ , and when someone like Harry kisses you, by god, you’d better kiss them back. It’s just their mouths at first, wet and hot and bitter from cocktails, and then Harry’s clutching Nick’s shirt, holding them together once their feet start to knock about. They’re both unsteady, unable to stand still for more than a second.

Nick licks into Harry’s mouth, cupping his arse in those painted-on trousers. He gives himself to the kiss as their tongues slide together. They're shuffling around in a way that would be embarrassing if Nick wasn’t drunk, bodies shifting as they try to get more, deeper, closer. Harry wraps his arms around Nick's back damp from dancing, and when Nick runs his hands up Harry's sides, Harry pulls away for a second and sighs, all the air in his lungs rushing out in one long hum.

Nick keeps his eyes closed as he tries to get his breath back, but Harry leans in for round two, and Nick’s plan goes to utter shite. Harry's still kissing messy and desperate, but he allows their tongues to fall into a proper rhythm this time, one that makes Nick moan low in his throat and dig his hands into Harry's hips. Harry's skin is smooth, his mouth inviting and just as soft as Nick had always thought it would be.

Nick hooks two fingers in Harry’s belt loops to pull him closer, and when their cocks bump, Harry’s erection against him is startling. It’s also really fucking hot, and Nick has to deliberately remind himself that it’s him, that _he’s_ the one who made Harry hard like that. The simple heady fact of it makes him dizzy with power.

Nick doesn’t think much after that, just goes for it, fitting a hand between them and undoing Harry’s belt. Harry gapes at him for a second before dropping his hands to fumble at his fly. Nick wants to speed things up, but in their hazy-drunk desperation, their knuckles end up bumping together over and over.

“Gerroff,” Nick huffs, batting away Harry’s hand. He manages to shove Harry’s tight jeans down a little, just enough to get Harry’s cock out, and _Okay. Wow._

Harry has the nicest cock Nick’s seen in a while, he’s pretty sure. Granted, it’s quite blurry in his state, but it’s soft and warm and weighty against his palm in a way that makes him feel dizzy. Nick spits into his hand to get some slick going, then starts stroking slow. He tries to rub the head on every upward stroke, but it’s hard to get into a solid rhythm with Harry’s face so close to his, letting out these shaky little gasps right in his ear.

“Mm, yeah, fuck -- faster,” Harry breathes. Nick has to concentrate to quicken his pace, to keep his strokes full and fast. He watches as Harry's head lolls forward, eyes shutting gently.

Harry tightens his grip on Nick’s shoulders and groans a single syllable. It’s a name, _Nick’s_ name. Nick stops short, startled. His thoughts sift in through a fog.

_We’re in public. There are people around. Our mates could find us. They know what our shoes look like. They know where we went. They could walk in any second._

While those thoughts are terrifying, they’re also a bit hilarious. _Would any of them really be surprised?_ , he wonders. _George maybe, but Ian would just shake his head and go about his business. Henry, though, he would spill it to everyone. That dickhead would probably tweet about it, trying to hint but totally giving it away._

Nick giggles, thinking about what Henry might tweet, and then it occurs to him that he really doesn’t want to get caught, that getting caught could make loads of things awkward and strange.

“Nick, Nicholas, c’mon, please,” Harry says, with a whine that’s more like a sigh.

Nick puts the fingers of his other hand over Harry’s mouth.

“Shhh, shhh, you have to hush up, okay? Shhhh.” He tries to whisper, but a stray laugh slips out.

_Henry would probably use our initials in his tweet, and then name-drop the club. What a prat._

Harry nods and pulls Nick’s hand away from his mouth. He shifts them so they’re chest to chest, and braces one of his palms against the wall. Harry leans his face against Nick's shoulder when Nick starts jerking him off again. Nick's shirt muffles the sounds Harry's making, but Nick can still hear the little gasps of Harry’s breath catching in his throat. He’s mouthing at Nick’s shoulder, breath puffing from his nose fast and hot.

While the idea of one of their mates walking in on Nick with his hand down Harry’s pants seems absurd, the actual experience of it begins to seem less absurd and more real as time goes on. It's easy for Nick to become grounded in it, intoxicated by the rapid rise and fall of Harry's chest and the sheer insistence of his mouth as he bites Nick's collarbone. It’s too tender a spot, and with the angle, it hurts like hell. Nick’s eyes water, but he keeps his tugs rhythmic and steady despite Harry’s teeth digging into his clavicle, despite the shock of pain that turns his mind foggy red. His arm starts to cramp, and then he remembers Harry’s mouth slack and open against him and feels a little better.

Harry drags his teeth up to the softer part of Nick’s shoulder, sways his hips forward the slightest bit, and this time Nick finds that he actually doesn’t mind when Harry presses sharp teeth hard against his skin. The pain is dirty and satisfying, clears his mind instead of muddying it. Harry keeps his mouth there, holds Nick’s flesh between his teeth, each moan running into the next as he rocks toward him. Nick wants to speak, wants to be able to say things like _c’mon, babe, come for me yeah_ and _god you sound lovely when you’re desperate_ but he keeps it to himself, head spinning as he strokes Harry faster and surer. Nick’s shoulder is throbbing where Harry’s been sucking at the skin, his feet protesting since Harry keeps stepping on them, but nothing seems to matter once Harry starts shaking against him, spilling over his fingers.

Nick hadn't been expecting the trembling, disarmingly sweet in contrast to the way Harry had sunk his teeth in without fear.

When Harry slowly detaches himself from Nick, Nick can see the flush on Harry's face like a peach. Harry opens his eyes and looks at Nick, batting his eyelashes the way he probably does when he’s waking up. He's fucking _glowing,_ a soft smile stretched across his lips, like Nick’s mistaken and this is actually hotel rooms and champagne flutes, not a drunken handie in a dingy loo. Nick almost wants to take the mick out of him for it, this bright-eyed boy so goddamn pleased by everything he’s given.

Nick bites his bottom lip but grins through it anyway, wadding up some tissue and setting about cleaning up. It's a wildly inconvenient time _and_ place for a cuddle, but of course Harry does it anyway, throwing his arms around both of Nick's and nuzzling into his neck. It's one of those rare times Nick doesn't want Harry wrapped around him, but he doesn’t push him away.

Harry sounds dazed as he begins to mumble, talking about how Nick's hands are " _sooo incredible",_ all big and nice, like mattresses and also tennis rackets. Nick wouldn't typically mind, except that when Harry’s drunk, he tends to begin every sentence with Nick’s full name... even when it isn’t directed at Nick. He’s already pretty goddamn close to giving them both away.

“Nick'las Pee Grimshh --” Harry warbles, giggling to himself.

"Stop that," Nick hisses.

"Grimshhh, shhhhh,” Harry says.

"I'm trying to make you decent, Haz, shhh.”

Nick tries the best he can with the tissue, hoping to every higher power that everyone will be too plastered to notice anything strange when they go back. He watches Harry tuck himself back into his jeans and readjust, with movements fumbling and syrup-slow. Harry has trouble with the button on his trousers, so Nick gets it, and the belt as well, the one with the silver British flag on the buckle.

Harry looks at him, beaming without even a touch of sheepishness. He presses a kiss to Nick's cheek and whispers _thanks, Grimmy_ in his ear, the gesture somehow more intimate than the whole encounter. He tells Nick he'll meet him back where they were in the balcony, and even with a hard-on still raging in his jeans, Nick’s in the clouds.

The marks of Harry's teeth are gone by the end of the night, but the violet bruise on Nick's shoulder takes a week to fade. Even after it does, the image of it burns when Nick closes his eyes, and it’s one he holds on to, hoping that he isn't merely imagining a promise behind it.


End file.
